


Picking Up the Pieces (Of Love)

by calescently



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, M/M, PWP, Plushophilia, and I'm sorry, this is reprehensible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:39:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calescently/pseuds/calescently
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stares down at the teddy bear with a grimace. He is met with a vacant, beady stare. It sits on the kitchen table, propped up between the jam and a jar of pickled pig hearts (neatly labeled).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Up the Pieces (Of Love)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Fitz and The Tantrums song. Not Brit-picked. Wrote this ages ago for the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. I... I don't have any excuses.

 

**Pickin Up the Pieces (Of Love** ) 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stares down at the teddy bear with a grimace. He is met with a vacant, beady stare. It sits on the kitchen table, propped up between the jam and a jar of pickled pig hearts (neatly labeled). Tan fur. Clean, unused. Cheap. Easy to wash, fairly small. Smells faintly of disinfectant. 

 

John bustles in from the bathroom. His hands are pink, freshly washed. Rid of the grime from cleaning whatever storage room he lifted the bear from, Sherlock muses. Ever prudent, his John.

 

“Hey, Sherlock,” he smiles, eyes warm. Sherlock’s drinks in the sight of him— neatly brushed hair, cool blue button-down, cream jumper. Sherlock is fond of John’s jumpers. This one, in particular, gives John an air of innocence, of propriety. Enticing. 

 

“Would you believe they were about to throw away a whole case of these?”

 

“Obviously. But you kept one, John.”

 

“Yes, well,” John shrugs, carefully toeing off his shoes and settling on the couch, soaking in the warmth of the fireplace. “You’re not always around to snuggle me, what with all your running about, now, are you?”

 

Sherlock grabs the bear and stalks airily over, raising a brow to demonstrate his opinion of snuggling. John giggles. Sherlock sinks into the armchair with a wry shake of his head, eyes fixed firmly on his companion. Quiet amazement sweeps over him, momentarily drowning out the squalls of his mind. John— good, beautiful John —is his.

 

“What are you thinking?”

 

Sherlock frowns. It’s not like John to ask such a trite question. But the doctor is nervous, toes fidgeting in his socks. Matching, cream colored socks. Interesting. Sherlock tosses the bear to John, who catches it with a start.

 

“Why did you keep this one, John?”

 

“You first,” John insists. He rests his side against the cushions like Sherlock during a sulk, aiming for casual languor and failing. He hardly needs to bend his legs to fit. It is... oddly thrilling. Sherlock sits forward, locks eyes with his lover.

 

“Fine,” the detective relents. “I’m thinking about what we did last month. When we played, what I said we would try. How hard you came. You are either far more eager than I had imagined or under the mistaken impression that I forgot about it.” 

 

John stills. Sherlock smirks, encouraged.

 

“You want it tonight,” he continues. “The bear was a stroke of luck you couldn’t pass up, wasn’t it? Did you think I needed more convincing?”

 

John sits up, slow and tense. Looks at the bear, shakes his head.

 

Sherlock grins.

 

“What’s his name?”

 

“Mr. Toffee,” John answers, and promptly flushes with embarrassment.

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, considering. It is likely that John wants this more than he realizes. Needs it? He has to gather more data. 

 

Sherlock leans back in his armchair, straightening his spine and relaxing his shoulders. Spreads his thighs. John watches closely, tugging at the hem of his jumper. Such a lovely cream color. Sherlock wonders how his riding crop would look against it ( _wicked black leather sliding down soft wool to smack John’s bare arse_ ).

 

“Stand,” he orders. Arousal deepens his voice. “Pick him up.”

 

John complies, blushing cerise in the firelight. A thousand little signs alert the detective that his partner is ready to begin. He feels his cock twitch with interest. The game begins.

 

“John,” he rumbles lazily, “What’s your special word?”

 

“Hubble,” John answers softly. 

 

“Good boy,” Sherlock smiles. “Come here, let Daddy see you.”

 

John swallows hard. Sherlock watches with approval. John approaches slowly, uncertain, eyes bright, hands steady around the toffee-colored bear. He stops directly in front of the detective before looking down at his socks, shy. 

 

Sherlock leans forward with a huff of impatience, reaches up to soothe circles into John’s hips.

 

“Look at me,” he murmurs, pulling the blond incrementally closer. John looks up with wide blue eyes, bottom lip caught in his teeth. Hope, fear, and trust dance along the contours of his eyes, his mouth, every twitch of his body. Sherlock wants every bit of it. 

 

“You needn’t be so quiet, darling. I can only give you what you ask for. Do you understand?”

 

John hesitates, then nods.

 

“Yes, Daddy.”

 

“Lovely,” Sherlock murmurs, granting John a plausive nod as his right hand drifts down to rub his bulge. Sherlock finds it strangely satisfying how John struggles not to squirm. He rubs harder. 

 

“You should have told Daddy you wanted to play. I might have to punish you.”

 

“N-no,” John stutters, thighs clenching as Sherlock’s fingers shove into his fly and pinch lightly at John’s hardening cock. “Please, Daddy, I’m sorry. I’ll be good, I promise.”

 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Sherlock asks breezily, pulling John’s slacks down with quick tugs. Heat licks low in his belly when he sees the white Y-fronts underneath. “Why couldn’t you ask Daddy to play?” 

 

“Mmmh, I— I dunno,” John gasps. He shuffles slightly, spreading his legs as clever fingers tease him to full hardness through his underwear. He takes a deep breath as Sherlock begins to knead his ass. He clutches the stuffed bear to his chest. “I was scared. I, _mmm_ , I wanted Daddy to do, do bad things to me. Oh, please more...” 

 

“Bad things, John?” Sherlock repeats, leaning in to nuzzle John’s straining erection. 

 

“Yes!” John yelps. “Please, Daddy!”

 

“That’s my good boy,” Sherlock praises, lifting John’s jumper and undershirt to press a searing wet kiss into his navel. John whines, struggles to stay upright. Sherlock pulls back just long enough to shove John’s slacks and underwear down, hastily stripping them off, before returning for a last slow lick. John shudders.

 

Sherlock pulls John into his lap, leans close to lick the whorl of his ear.

 

“You’re a good boy, John,” he whispers. “My good boy. Daddy _wants_ to do bad things to you.”

 

John ducks his head and moans, squirming closer, desperate for friction.

 

“Daddy, please touch me, please...”

 

“Where, John?” Sherlock asks, pressing a kiss to the warm thrum of John’s auricular vein. He lets two fingers drift to the crack of John’s arse, brushes lightly against the furled opening. “Here?”

 

A short, sharp whimper falls from John’s lips, and his hips rock helplessly into Sherlock’s touch even as he shakes his head. Sherlock groans at the pressure on his aching prick.

 

“N-no, Daddy,” John pants. “Want you to touch my— Mmm, touch my cock. Please?” 

 

Sherlock hums contemplatively. His hands slide lazily under John’s jumper, stroking his sides, pinching hard little nipples. He’s tempted to take remove the wooly garment, but John is so soft this way. And the contrast of the material above John’s bare arse is _addictive_.

 

Sherlock withdraws one hand to take hold of John’s chin, baring John’s throat. John’s eyes shine with need, mouth parting ever so slightly. Sherlock grunts and lowers his mouth to John’s neck, drags a wet tongue up the path of John’s pulse. The doctor squirms, back arching, until Sherlock stills him with a slow, filthy kiss.

 

“Now John,” he scolds, a wicked idea striking him. “You’re forgetting Mr. Toffee. Why don’t we let him join the fun?”

 

The stuffed animal is still clutched in John’s right hand. Slowly, Sherlock guides it to John’s leaking erection, trapping his engorged flesh between the creamy jumper and Mr. Toffee’s soft fur. 

 

“ _Daddy_ ,” John hisses, burying his face in the smooth purple silk of Sherlock’s shirt as his hips jerk forward.

 

“Hush, love. Daddy’s got you,” Sherlock soothes, gently pushing at the small of John’s back to encourage his weak thrusts. “Sit up. Need your mouth.”

 

John obeys with a small moan, eagerly accepting two strong, slender fingers. Sherlock sighs with pleasure, running the pads of his fingers over the slick heat of John’s gums, his teeth, his tongue. John is lost in sensation, eyes half-lidded, brows drawn together in concentration. 

 

Sherlock’s left hand fumbles impatiently at his fly, hurriedly releasing his stiff cock before returning to the small of John’s back, urging him to fuck into the stuffed animal faster.

 

“Very good,” he whispers, mesmerized by the bruised pink of John’s lips. “Get Daddy nice and wet so he can fuck you.”

 

John moans hungrily around Sherlock’s fingers, saliva escaping the corners of his mouth. Sherlock growls, leans down to lick it up without removing his fingers.

 

“Sloppy little boy,” he teases, wringing a low, delicious sound from John. “You want it so bad, don’t you, John? Want Daddy’s thick cock in your tight little hole?”

 

He replaces his fingers with a ravenous tongue, swallowing John’s whimper as dripping fingers begin to massage the blond’s perineum. John rocks hard into the stuffed animal, the fur growing tacky with precum.

 

“More,” John pleads, thighs splaying farther apart as Sherlock’s finger work him open. “So good, feels so good, I can’t— I need more, Daddy, _please_!”

 

Sherlock groans, sucking a dark bruise into the slope of John’s trapezius before reaching into his back pocket. He thumbs open the small vial and hastily coats his cock in lube, impatient to be buried in John’s tight heat.

 

“Up,” he grunts, lifting John by the hips. Slowly, he guides the head of his cock to John’s pink hole. Rubs tantalizing circles against it, presses in. John’s eyes flutter shut, his left hand clutching Sherlock’s shoulder while his other rubs the stuffed bear into the warm, sticky precum on his prick. 

 

“Jesus,” John breathes, eyes shut, head dipping back as Sherlock’s cock inches further inside him. A low huff escapes him, thighs quivering as Sherlock lowers John onto his cock. Sweat glistens at his brow; his fingernails dig into Sherlock’s shoulder. 

 

“God, you’re hard,” John pants, shifting just enough to loop an arm around Sherlock’s pale neck. (The movement sends shudders rocketing down John’s spine. Sherlock can feel them.) “So hard, Daddy, I can, can feel you—”

 

“That’s because you’re such a good boy, John,” Sherlock rasps, voice hoarse with the strain of controlling himself. John’s body fits him like a glove, tight heat chipping away at his restraint. 

 

He leans back, pulling John close against him. He uses the leverage to pull almost entirely out, earning a devastated whine from his lover. Then, holding John in place with a stern grip around his waist, Sherlock snaps his hips up, thrusting deep and hard into his lover.

 

“ _Daddy_!” John shouts, clinging desperately to his lover.

 

Sherlock exhales harshly, heat surging through his veins as he quickens the pace, canting his hips until he finds the angle that makes John’s breath catches in his throat. John keens wordlessly, sitting up so he can push down and meet every thrust, bouncing in Sherlock’s lap.

 

His breaths come in labored pants, a staccato refrain that drives the detective to distraction. He needs to feel it. Dipping one hand under John’s lumbar curve to steady him, Sherlock lifts John’s jumper once more, chasing the soft material with his lips until he reaches John’s nipples. 

 

John arches his back when Sherlock bites down, moaning brokenly.

 

“Please Daddy,” John babbles, toes curling as he presses Mr. Toffee against his aching cock, desperate for enough friction to bring him off. “Make me come, need it, Daddy, _please_.”

 

Sherlock knocks his hand away with a snarl, long fingers wrapping around John’s deliciously wet cock. John stifles a short scream with his free hand, jamming knuckles into a panting wet mouth before Sherlock begins to stroke in time with his thrusts.

 

“My sweet boy,” he groans, gaze unwavering as he jerks John in earnest. John looks utterly wrecked, clutching the bear with both hands as he bounces on Sherlock’s cock, moaning raw and loud. Sherlock grits his teeth, fighting to keep his own orgasm at bay.

 

“So pretty, such a good boy for me. Come, John. Come for Daddy.”

 

John comes with a shout, thick streams of cum painting his chest and neck. He tightens impossibly around Sherlock’s cock, dragging his lover over the edge with him. 

 

For a few long moments, there is no sound save for the crackle of the fire and their labored breath. Then comes a dull thump as John drops the bear, strips off his jumper and collapses against Sherlock, humming with pleasure when his lover reaches up to stroke his back.

 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John whispers sleepily.

 

“Anything for you, love,” Sherlock smiles, pressing a soft kiss to John’s temple. 


End file.
